Snippets of Innocence
by Hinoede
Summary: Malik reflects on significant memories of Kadar. Through the easy and the hard times, one thing remained the same: Malik's love for his brother never wavered.


_**i.**_

Malik's first memory of his family consists of a young boy no more than four years old sitting in a lone chair next to a door with fading wood. A mind of innocence turns his attention away from the muted chaos of the adjacent room to his newly equipped bracer, brown leather lacking the traditional piece: a hidden blade.

He was born into the order and though his training had not commenced, he was slowly lowered into the tenant of the creed. Aiming to be the strongest had both pros and cons, but his father warned him that brawn did not always lead to success. To become truly committed, one had to know the creed inside and out.

A jolt lances down his spine as the door creaks open.

Instinctively, Malik leans forward to peer into the room. He briefly maps out a world of distraught gestures – a head bowed in shame, another with hands clamped over mouth, and a figure enveloped by wraps of white—

"Malik," the gruff voice of Faheem Al-Sayf snags his gaze. In his arms lies a bundle. He lowers and Malik is able to see not _what _his father is holding, but _who_.

The face of the newborn is still, lids concealing eyes softly, very light strands of hair atop head...

"Meet your brother. Kadar." Faheem says, gently guiding Kadar into Malik's arms.

Looking back on that day, Malik is aware of two things that eluded his younger self: 1) Kadar would never meet his own mother; 2) Malik would protect his baby brother – no matter the consequences. A naïve decision put in only the words of a child:

_Don't worry, Kadar. I'll be the best brother ever._

_**ii.**_

The metal is cold and heavy in his grip.

Wooden weaponry was the preferred choice for combat, but with enough convincing, they were permitted for one day to use real weapons. Because of the decision, the experienced assassins hung around the students, there if chaos were to erupt among arguing boys.

He remembers it was a hot day, robes heavier than usual with the weight of heat and creeping perspiration.

At first, he had to use both hands to keep the sword stable. Eventually, he got around to wielding the blade properly in one hand, the weight no longer serving as an obstacle. Whether it's from the mixed encouragement of the Master Assassins or the jeers of other students ("Look at that: Calls himself _Al-Sayf, _but he can barely lift it an inch off the ground")—

(_actually, it's _three inches, _you smart, son of a—_)

"C'mon, Malik!"

Kadar's cheers break out from the surrounding students, earning him a few frustrating looks. His face is split into a wide grin, a light bounce on the balls of his feet as he calls out to his older brother. Kadar's voice was naturally high pitched at such an age, so Malik could understand why some students were rather dour. But Kadar was his brother; Kadar was _family_, so screw it.

"Are you ready now, _Al-Sayf?_"

His last name is hurled tauntingly at his feet by a boy around his age, probably a few months younger at the most. He holds his sword proudly, a flick of wrist displaying exaggerated swings. Standing in the middle of a field, surrounded by students and peers, the boy looks ridiculous, and Malik resists the urge to roll his eyes.

At the right timing, when the sword point floats directly before him, Malik fwips in a parry, startling the other to the point his weapon falls with a clang. The surrounding students fall quiet all except for one... One who happens to express awe and astonishment rather loudly…

Kadar is spilling excitement again. "Nice, Malik!"

The smirk flies to Malik's lips before he can stop himself. "Stay your tongue, Abbas," Malik says, fueled by his brother's compliment. "Did you not boast of such swordsmanship? You must've been bluffing if you were not able to counter such a move."

Abbas frowns, eyes narrowing into slits as he hauls up his blade. There's a light flush of embarrassment plastered to visage.

When their teacher gives the signal, swords clash yet again.

That day, Malik learns a good counter and parry is enough to leave an opponent stunned.

_**iii.**_

Malik does not remember the last peaceful day he had with Kadar. He does remember the day Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad entered his life... and he never forgets the ire he felt.

The day they met was the fourth day of their father's absence. He had been sent on a mission outside of Masyaf, a mission only dedicated to those bestowing a master rank. His absence had created a silenced atmosphere, but the training kept both Malik and Kadar busy.

"No, you cannot draw attention to yourself..." Malik sighs. "If you are tasked to assassinate, do so quietly. Remember the second tennent: 'Hide in plain sight'. You can't rush in and expect to get away. The guards will chase you and you'll find yourself stuck."

Kadar bows his head in understanding. "My apologies."

Swift guilt flits through his chest, but the words that follow Kadar's expression of regret do not come from Malik at all.

"If you can kill and leave the scene, there is no need to hide in plain sight," Another student about Malik's age arrives, hood drawn over head. "All it requires is skill. There are more ways of 'not drawing attention' than hiding."

Instantly, Malik is aware at how Kadar's attention is captured. And Malik is rather irritated at this person's uninvited words. "Yes, and make sure you carry the body a good length so nobody sees. Leaving the scene of a kill is the _best _way to carry out a mission." Malik retorts.

The other assassin shoots him a look, but Kadar intervenes before he can retaliate.

"If that is so, I would like you to show me." Kadar says. Malik nudges him in the arm, arms slightly akimbo in bewilderment. "What? Skills create a good assassin, right brother?"

"I thought we made it clear that the tenants—"

"—are just words. When faced with life and death, I wouldn't be jumping to the words of our creed. What is your name?"

"Malik. This is Kadar."

"Altair. Watch closely and you might learn something."

Kadar is impressed while Malik simply shakes his head in disbelief as he silently curses this man for all he's worth.

_**iv.**_

Malik and Kadar both learn that their father is not returning.

They're unsure of how to mourn. It's a silly thing to say, but wrapped in training and the blown out fight between Altair and Abbas leaves an impression on them. While Malik was not _as affected _by Altair's restriction (one month of no training along with Abbas), Kadar seemed more... lost.

He finds his brother sitting by the window of their room. Unable to sleep as well, he approaches Kadar. "The recent events bother you." It's not a question; it's a hypothesis tested and proved by Kadar's silence.

His brother huffs. "Abbas' intentions... what are they, exactly?" Although Kadar speaks, Malik feels as if he's simply thinking aloud. It's not a question for Malik, or rather not one he can answer. Abbas was violent and compared to Altair, he was uncaring and cruel.

"Malik?"

"Yes, Kadar?"

Kadar avoids eye contact. "Father's death was not in vain... right?"

Perhaps it's an elderly brother instinct taking over, or perhaps he misses Faheem just as much... Malik wraps one arm around his brother's shoulders. He cannot provide the true answer, but in that moment, he knows what to say.

"No, it was not."

_**v.**_

"When will Al Mualim permit us to go on a mission?"

This memory is full of a mix of irritation and jealousy for one assassin in particular. Malik's grip on the quill tightens as he crudely crosses out a marking on the parchment. Trying to find openings in a restricted area was difficult enough in silence, but when a little brother continuously doted on a reckless assassin, the situation could get rather annoying. Quickly.

"_You _are not high enough of rank, Kadar," Malik quips. "Had you listened to me instead of following Altaïr's reckless style, perhaps you would've been considered." He leaves out not distaste towards his fellow "brother"; Malik does not like Altaïr. In fact, he did not like Altaïr since the day he showed off his skills with a sword. _Reckless _skills, may he add.

Kadar goes quiet, briefly. Malik doesn't need to look back to know he's starting to fold in on himself. Neither brother liked to quarrel. Since Altaïr entered the picture, there was a wedge slowing easing itself between them. And Malik hated it.

There's a light _thump _as Kadar sits down on the mat. Silence continues to drip by until Kadar's voice springs out yet again.

"May I ask what you have against Altaïr?"

The scratches of the quill pick up. "He is foolish. His actions will get someone killed. Best to avoid him." Malik's response is quick, not wanting to linger on the subject.

"...But he's given us help, brother. He's different from the others; there's something in his technique that pushes beyond our peers. Maybe if you and Altaïr talked—"

"I have _nothing _to say to that _novice_!" Malik snaps, head whipping to meet Kadar with a scowl. He's tired of Kadar's words these days: Altaïr this, Altaïr that... Why couldn't his brother see that _novice _was a train wreck of an apprentice? Why couldn't he understand that Altaïr was capable of violating all three tenants?

Kadar flinches at the harshness of Malik's voice, and Malik assumes it's because he's never raised his voice with Kadar before. "He's not a novice." he protests weakly. "If you just pardoned your tactical ways—"

"—Ah yes, I could learn how to put everyone in danger just as he would." And before Kadar can spew out any more words of how "superior" Altaïr is, Malik abandons his work and rises to his feet. "I need to have a word with Al Mualim." He says curly, departing from their room despite his younger brother's calling.

Malik remembers how frustrated he felt with Kadar. He was angry with Altaïr for twisting things, yet he was annoyed with Kadar's dotting.

_**vi.**_

The day Altaïr becomes a Master Assassin is a day Malik never forgets.

He remembers the arrogant glance he gives Abbas before he rises to the next rank. He remembers a major shift in attitude and demeanor (because Altaïr was always prideful, but this was another step to the high horse). And last but not least...

He remembers the joy in Kadar's eyes and the new determination that accompanied him in his training.

He never forgot how Kadar's tactics went from a mixture of Malik's and Altaïr's, to tactics practically mirrored from Altair himself.

_No, Kadar... Reckless skills do not always grant victory._

_**vii.**_

"It's too risky."

Malik voices his concern for Kadar's recruitment into the mission: to obtain a treasure in Solomon's temple. He's unsure if Al Mualim feels the same concern for the lower rank assassin. He hopes their master changes his decision. After all, Malik has made it quite clear that he does not like Kadar going on too many missions that went beyond Maysaf and the neighboring cities.

Al Mualim paces behind his desk covered in stacks of books (what lies in their contents, Malik is unsure). He curls a fist thoughtfully, bringing it to his mouth. "I'm aware of Kadar's rank," he begins, clasping hands behind back as he faces Malik. "However, this is an important task. With the other assassins scattered about, I am very limited in who I can choose."

"Altair and I can retrieve the treasure you seek." Malik suggests. He inwardly cringes at the idea of working with Altair, but if it's to prevent Kadar from entering such dangerous territory, he'll manage.

There's a brief pause in between Malik's words and Al Mualim's.

"I have faith in both you and Altair. As a team, you should have no problems retrieving our target. Allowing Kadar to go with you may benefit him. The boy is severely lacking in distance missions and he is capable of moving up in rank."

Another pause.

Al Mualim locks gaze with Malik.

"You will all return safely. Follow the tenants as you carry out your goal, and everything will fall in place."

Malik nods an affirmative, giving a slight bow as he takes his leave. He knows there is no point in arguing; Al Mualim has come to a conclusion and was not going to change anytime soon. If anything, he reaffirmed his faith in the three of them...

Yet as Malik walks down the steps, the doubt and worry in his mind grows.

_**viii.**_

There's too much chaos.

Altair is separated from them, and Malik finds himself and Kadar surrounded by Templars. A Templar knight and some piety guards are no issue, but with Robert de Sable with elites? Therein lies a major problem, and the risk of escaping without a scratch is farfetched.

Everything moves too quickly.

Malik's backed against one of the structures, parrying and struggling to counter against two knights. He finds an opening and goes in for a stab-

-only to reel back from a sudden blow to the nose.

The smell of iron overwhelms his senses, pollutes his mouth as the other knight manages to hit him clean across the face. He feels the sting of steel bite into his side and he can't help the cry that tears free from his throat.

'_Dammit, Alta__ïr... Damn your reckless—'_

A sudden, sharp intake of breath pierces his curses, and his head whips in the direction of the source.

His stomach drops, legs heavy as lead.

Kadar stands against Robert de Sable, frozen as the blade that penetrated him through the back is roughly pulled out by the cowardly knight. His younger brother falls to his knees before his head collides with the ground.

No.

_No, no, no, no, no!_

In that stilled instant, Malik doesn't think – _damn it all! _– all he cares about is getting to Kadar, protecting his little brother. God _dammit_! What made him think Kadar could handle such cowards? Why, of all times, did he have to make such a careless mistake? _Why, why, why, why...?_

"Kadar—" his call is interrupted by a rough grasp on his left shoulder, yanking him back to the point where it _burns. _It's not broken, but it stings like hell – a definite sprain or pull... He can't name the medical term at the moment; his mind is focused only on _Kadar_.

Perhaps this is what people call a blackout.

Malik is unaware of how it happened, but it suddenly feels as if his left arm is on fire. A little above the forearm down to the hand – he can't feel anything in that side. And suddenly, the white robes are stained a deep red, smelling strongly of blood. He hears a scream, realizing it is his in the midst of his shock—

Somehow, he lands next to Kadar. He sees the lack of light – that energetic glow that was a trademark of his brother– in his eyes. And through the pain, he makes out the object in Kadar's hand, fingers limp around the treasure. His arm twitches towards his brother, a weak attempt to hand him what Al Mualim so desired...

"_Run, Malik..._" His lips form weakly.

Then he stills.

And Malik feels a rush of emotions – sadness, distress, pain, anger, rage, hatred.

But his brother gives him one last request, one last push of the scroll... _And two words._

As much as he hates it, as much as his body protests, he struggles to his feet. With a flickering determination to fulfill his brother's dying wish, Malik runs. He scrambles up the ladder of the post they used previously to reach the treasure and, to Altaïr, to ambush.

The Templars let him escape at the words of Robert de Sable.

_**ix.**_

Kadar got the treasure. He completed the mission. He did _as instructed..._ Ironically, he was the one who didn't leave. He was the one who would never reach the master rank, would never receive the praise he so deserved...

Malik realizes why Robert de Sable targeted him: Kadar was able to snag their precious gem. Why would anyone go after a weaker assassin? Malik was far more skilled and strategic... Upon seeing the object wrapped in Kadar's limp fingers, it all made sense.

He remembers how angry he was, returning to base only to find Altaïr completely unharmed. Had his left arm not been _dead_, he would've strangled him right then and there. Damn him. Because of his arrogance, Kadar was...

…_The amputation of his left arm was a blur…_

Malik requests time alone. He cannot look at Kadar's bed... The room is emptier.

It takes a while, but he allows himself.

He allows himself to drown in the sorrow he carried with him from Solomon's Temple. His hand covers his face, tears pricking his eyes, body quivering with sob after sob. He cries until he's left gasping for air before he collapses back into another mess. The death of his parents didn't hurt this bad, didn't leave him breathless...

_His family is gone._

_**x.**_

Even though it's been years since Altaïr's change and apology, Malik still reflects back on that day. He can't stay mad at Altaïr; he is not the same Altaïr he was in Solomon's Temple. The past had past, damage had been done.

As time dragged on, Malik adapted to a new life: a life alongside Altaïr in the creed. Malik does not linger in the past as long as he used to. Finally, he feels at peace. There are complications with the Templars, but the creed is secured with a good leader. That's almost enough to keep him from returning to the void created by his brother's death.

Still, at times he can't help but wonder where they could be now.

And in another world, Kadar wonders the same.

* * *

><p><strong>author note: <strong>_Some Malik angst for all you fans... I do __**not**__ strictly follow the novel of Assassin's Creed (because I have not yet gotten my hands on it), so the backstory of Malik and Kadar is somewhat AUish..._


End file.
